Who Are you Really?
by buckyisms
Summary: It's been almost a year since the events of the day Hydra and SHIELD both fell apart. Now there's a new organization on the rise called Venom, the cousin to Hydra that's been striving for years alongside them undetected, but they were smart enough to not be revealed. As they near the date to finish what Hydra started, their favored pawn goes rogue, and you'll find she's not so nice


**AN: Hi everyone, so this is my first shot at a fanfiction for anything other then TVD, so please bare with me, I'm used to the supernatural side of writing. But, this fanfiction is revolving around MCU, and it's months after TWS. But I hope you enjoy, please don't forget to review/favorite/whatever ya want if you liked it!**

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><p>It's quiet, the echoing noises of the water dripping from the leaking pipes that were buried within the walls circle around the shell of her ear as her large boots settles themselves awkwardly against the mat covered hardwood floors. The two sounds mix with her instructors yelling command to take her shoes off as they sink deep into her ear drum, seeping into her brain, trying to pull the memory of him ever telling her that shoes were not permitted on the map, but the invisible hands of sound failed miserably as well as the fingers of vision.<p>

The sad thing is, her instructor had probably yelled at her in the past days for the same mistake, but she couldn't remember. And it was not because her memory was a pile of shit, which it actually was due to recent events, but because of the constant memory wiping and stealing that was preformed on her young mind. But she made no objections, it's not like she really could anyhow. They'd hook her up to a large machine, one with metal plates that pushed her deep into the back of the chair they sat her in every time they stole something new she learned. These plates pushed on her breasts and another set of metal limbs came from the machine and wrapped around her biceps, making it hard of her to flex and rip away from the machine and harm the people around her, the people operating on her. An extension of a more bendable metal branches from the bicep pieces, covering her hands like gloves and pinning them to chair's armrests. They did this so she wasn't able to magically punch on of the guards if she ever so happened to free herself of the bicep and breast attachments. As well as the reason for her powers to become useless and yes, powers.

She was a witch, in the simplest of terms. This didn't mean that she chanted Latin sentences over and over again and could raise the dead; her abilities were more suited to the living, human bodies. She could send a person flying through the wall with the flick of her hand; cause someone's blood to boil with another flick, and so on and so forth. She used to be able to do this with just a look, that was when her mind and power were at it's peak, and if she could remember she would say that, that is why Venom took her, which it was. Cruel and unusual, yes, but it was the complete and utter truth.

The heels of her boots are lined up with the edge of the mat, her body in line with her instructor's. He stands tall at six foot three inches, his shoulders broad and proud as he stares her down for simply ignoring his yell of their no being no shoes permitted on his mat. It's childish to the young girl, but it tugs a ghost of a smile at her mouth, a reason that's unknown to her, but as soon as it shows it's gone and she's gone stone faced. His name is Oliver Lartigue, a thirty six year old man who was shipped from France at the young age of eleven and sent into Venom, per his parent's requests. Olive skin coated his body, short blonde hair that spiked neatly in every which way. His eyes would've been something to look at, a humble, warm shade of mocha if they weren't so void of emotion, so empty and cold.

"Petite sorcière." Oliver nods his head respectfully as he greets her in his native tongue, one she has adapted to and learned from, despite her constant memory wiping and brutal beatings. It was as if she programmed to remember the language, to remember each spell, to remember how to hold a knife and kills someone with it, and that's all. Nothing floats around in her mind except for strategies. "Si nous allons former, vous devez enlever vos chaussures."

And she says nothing in response to him, doesn't nod her head in conformation and doesn't even bend down and take her shoes off like she usually does, in his mind. Instead, she breathes a heavy puff of air through her nose and her fists clench at her sides. Her mind is made up quick, she's been taught to think light on her feet and quickly throughout her years in the program, and so she takes a step further onto the mat with her combat boots clunking with the steps they took.

"Non?" With a brow cocked and a tilted head, a somewhat satisfied smirk took the shape of his lips. And if she wasn't dead set on what her mind had planned out for her, she would've creased her brow and frowned or snorted at him, but instead she pulled her favorite weapon out of her back pocket. Her SOG Seal Knife 2000, the only weapon that they've let her keep throughout every mission and killing. They figure it serves as a small piece of memory, reminding her of everything she's become since the ripe age of thirteen, the murderous twenty year old who knew nothing but the thrill of the hunt.

She twirls it between her fingers like a baton, as if it were to weigh nothing and if she were to accidentally poke her it wouldn't stab through the skin of her hand and cause and absence amount of blood to leave her body, although it would. But she's been doing this for years, it's not even second nature to her, it's her first and only nature. As she twirls her ice like eyes settle on Oliver, analyzing his stance and how armed he is. He stands tall, but relaxed, not ready for what she was about to spring on him and for his weapon's he had the small knife in his boot like she always knew him to have and the brass knuckles with more blood stains than one could count settled comfortably on his hand like a second skin.

Quicker than the blink of an eye, her hand had tangled itself into his sandy hair and pushed his head down towards her knee where she inflicted a painful blow with her limp, surely breaking his nose. His knuckles reach out for her side, but she's too quick for him and she's pushing on his head for support as she lifts off the ground and wraps her legs around his neck, settling comfortably on his shoulders with a yank of his head upwards. This move's been a favorite of her's since the day she learned it and it's always worked, no matter who the opponent was, it always worked.

With his neck exposed and her thighs cutting off his air supply with great ease, her knife is at his throat and slashing the dark skin open, his dark blood staining the blue mats a tinge of purple in the spots that have been tainted. Despite the fatal wound that would surely knock him down for the rest of time, he pulls on her wrists in an effort to yank her over his head but she forces all of her weight backwards and her thighs tighter around his throat so he stumbles backwards with a reddening face and gasps of air. When starts to fall to the mat, she unwraps herself from him and hoists her legs over her head, springing her from his body and on her feet right next to where he falls.

The blood bubbles from his throat as he continues in his struggle to breathe and she stands over him, her brows knotting together as she swipes the blade gently against her paints, freeing of blood, for the most part. She listens closely as he starts trying to string letters and words together, his eyes shining with terror and his face as red as a tomato. What feels like minutes is seconds as she watches the man bleed out before her, and when her ears pick up on heavy footsteps and loud voices is when her eyes change from one of vengeance and cruelty to apologetic and upset. But despite her quick change in mood, she leans down and takes his stained throat in her hand and harshly turns it to the left. Hearing the sickening snap satisfies her to some degree, but still leaves her feeling number than earlier, but she has no time to feel remorse and no time to feel sad over the loss of the man whose taught her most because she running for the side of the room in a split second, hiding in the shadows from the voices that open the door to the room and find Oliver dead.

A total of two minutes pass before the alarms start going off, and she knows that her window is limited, taking Oliver's ID card, the one she snagged off his dead body before running to this side of the room, she swipes it in the key card that lead to the parking garage.

With stealth movements and triple checking movements, she's out of the training room and into the parking garage. She ducks behind the automobiles, snags keys from the pocket of the guardsmen without being detected, and rolls underneath the machines until she's found the car that the keys in her hand belong too. Just like she can't identify her name, she can't identify he car, but she certainly knows how to drive one.

Getting in quietly she starts the car and none of the guards expect anything, just a car owner getting into their car, and they continue to expect nothing until the tires are screeching against the lot's floor and she's pulling out of the crammed parking space like a mad woman. They chase after the car, guns aimed and shots fired at the back window, but luckily the owner of this car had invested in bullet proof windows. That doesn't dawn on the shooters until she's out the garage door and racing down the streets of a place unknown to her eyes, but luckily she's quite good at navigating.

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><p><strong>Petite sorcière = Little witch<strong>

**Si nous allons former , vous devez enlever vos chaussures. = If we are going to train, you must take your shoes off.**


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